


this twilight and evening of the world

by evewithanapple



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: A witch, a king's mistress, and a crown in contest.
Kudos: 3
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	this twilight and evening of the world

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for Aleksandra for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020.

_**Paris, 1667** _

Jeanne had been in business long enough to know when a client was lying to her. The woman seated before her was lying.

“Madame, if you will remove your veil,” she said. “I cannot serve you if you refuse to uncover your face.”

The black lace in front of the woman’s face moved as she spoke. “My position will not permit it.”

“Your position!” Jeanne barked out a laugh. “Are you a nun, then? A nun seeking the services of a witch?” She fixed the woman with a hard stare. “If you will not remove the veil, you may remove yourself from my home. I will not attend you elsewise.”

She had won, and she knew it. It was one of the many benefits to being the best-known witch in Paris: those who desired her services were willing to do a great deal in order to secure them. Removing a veil was the least Jeanne asked of her clients.

The woman did as she was told. Jeanne, her face schooled into a careful mask of indifference, showed no reaction, but she thought _ah, of course_. Angelique du Bellême, created Comtesse of Domfront by the King but born simply Angelique Paquet in a tiny village in Orne. A famous beauty of the French court, renowned for her wit as well as her looks, and – until recently – the mistress held highest in the King’s favour.

Jeanne assumed her rumoured fall in fortunes was what had prompted this visit. It usually was.

“I require a charm,” Angelique said. “Or a potion. Something that will restore a lover whose passions have faded.” Her pink lips jutted out in a pout. “If this is not possible, I require something that will remove a rival. I will explain myself no further.”

She did not have to. Jeanne knew very well which rival Angelique wished to be rid of: the King’s newest interest, pretty little Ursule de La Fère, she who had come to court to serve in Angelique’s retinue just as Angelique had once served the Queen. It was all so terribly predictable. Had Jeanne not assisted a half-dozen noblewomen wishing to sway a wealthy lover’s eye in their direction? Such was the way of things.

“Charms and potions are different beasts,” Jeanne said. She laid her hands on the table, one crossed over the other. “A charm, you will carry on your person. It will enchant your lover’s eyes so that he will turn towards you once more, though it will not work if his passion has left him entirely.” She did not ask if this was the case; Angelique’s patronage was almost assured, but there was no need to be cocky. “A potion must be applied to whoever you wish to ensorcel. Rubbed upon the body, perhaps, or deposited in the wine they drink. It is a greater risk, and more expensive than a mere charm.” She held Angelique’s gaze as she delivered her _coup de grace_. “The reward, however, is assured. Tell me, madame – would you rather restore yourself in your lover’s affections, or see your rival struck down?”

Angelique’s pout grew as she considered, eyes darting around the room. No doubt she was taking in the amulets, the paintings, the gauzy fabrics draped over the furniture – all tricks of Jeanne’s trade just as much as her spells themselves. She could do her work in any room, surrounded by any decorations she might choose, but there was something to be said for tradition.

“I wish to destroy her,” Angelique said. Her eyes – which, it must be admitted, were rather small and beady for all her renowned beauty. “I wish to see her brought low and abased. I wish to see her banished from the society she seeks to conquer.”

Oh, it was so easy; indeed, Jeanne’s magic was really the least of her assets. Human cruelty and vanity provided the rest. Women like Angelique needed only the slightest prompting to grasp for Jeanne’s most expensive services. “Then I will grant you that,” Jeanne said. “For a price, all shall be yours. Wait here, please.”

She left Angelique seated at the table while she retreated into the back room. This was where the kept her most valued tools, the ones she did not wish to display to potentially skittish clients – or worse, to the authorities should they ever come knocking. She had assisted enough of the rich and powerful to be assured of their protection, but no one – no matter how royal their blood – would be able to protect her if some of these ingredients were discovered in her possession.

Like these: powder of mandrake root to be mixed into a paste with the wings of beetles, henbane leaves, and a touch of honey to disguise the taste. Mixed into a dish, it never failed to win a wandering heart. Jeanne had never used it herself; she knew better than to mix business with pleasure, and she did well enough without love in her life. But it was in high demand among those who came to her.

That concoction would return Angelique to the King’s favour. If she truly wished to bring low her rival however, she would require something more. For this, Jeanne was required to prepare a poppet, imbue it with grave dust and wind a red string around its neck. All this she did, and wrapped both products up in cheesecloth before returning the front room where Angelique waited.

“Your spells, my lady Comtesse,” she said as she handed the bundle over. Angelique’s eyes widened as she said it, which had been the point to begin with; her customers needed to understand that she could hold their identities over their heads, should they ever be tempted to turn on her. It did not do to rule with love alone; Jeanne found more security in fear.

“The concoction, you will mix in food and offer to the object of your desires,” she said. “The poppet, you will burn before a holy altar while chanting the name of she who you wish to defeat. You will accomplish your ends in this way.” She met Angelique’s eyes and held them. “But first, my payment.”

Angelique squawked over the price – they always did – but she paid it all the same, and went away with her purchases held under her arm. Jeanne watched her go from behind a door that had been shut and latched, then blew her candles out and went to bed.

When she heard in the market, two weeks later, that Ursule de La Fère had fallen from her horse while hunting with the king and broken her back, she was not surprised. Nor did it surprise her to hear that the king had neglected her sickbed to spend time once more with the Comtesse of Domfront. Within two months, Ursule had been sent away to recuperate in the countryside, and it was announced that Angelique expected another child by the king. Jeanne went home, counted her coins, and silently congratulated herself for another job well done. She did not expect to see Angelique again.

* * *

The woman returned within a year.

“I want another one,” she said to Jeanne as she stood once again in the front room of the shop. Her clothing had grown richer in the interim, and her face haughtier, but she was still quite recognizable. Even more so, perhaps, than it had been before; since they late spoke, the king had had coins struck in Angelique’s likeness, a gesture of thanks for the son she had given him. The boy had not been legitimized – yet – but as he lacked any half-brothers from either the queen or the king’s other mistresses, the people had already begun to refer to him as “the little princeling.”

“Another poppet,” she said again. “I want one.”

Jeanne raised her eyebrows. “And why is that?” Angelique had no further rivals: the potion Jeanne had sold her had seen to that. The king might sometimes take a passing fancy to some young woman or another as they passed through his orbit, they never remained for long. Angelique had given him the heir he craved, and for that, her position was secured.

“What business it of yours why?” Angelique snapped. “I will pay as I did before. Do you traffic in secrets as well as potions, now?”

Jeanne simply stared at Angelique until she subsided. It did not take long. Jeanne rather suspected that Angelique had encountered no one who would meet her gaze in some time.

“My services come with a risk,” she said evenly, “to you and to me. You know this, I think. If I am to take such a risk, I must know to what purpose.”

The set of Angelique’s mouth was as petulant as it had been a year prior, but there was a stubbornness to it that Jeanne had not seen before – and, truthfully, had not thought to see. Perhaps she had underestimated the woman; most who came to her begging love potions were content with petty triumphs. It seemed Angelique aspired to more.

“I have a lover,” she said, “burdened with a wife he does not wish to keep. A marriage of convenience, not love. If I were to rid him of this wife, he would be – most grateful.”

Jeanne stilled. “Madame – “

“I would not propose murder, of course,” she said – richly, in Jeanne’s opinion, given that she had made no such specification when she’d wished to be rid of Ursule de La Fère. “Only . . . a persuasion. If circumstances could be arranged to the satisfaction of all – say, an opening in a house of prayer and contemplation to tempt her away from her husband’s side – it would be best for all involved. And worth a great deal of money for you, of course.”

Jeanne lowered herself slowly into her seat, tenting her hands before her as she turned the proposition over in her mind. It would be more than her life’s worth to harm the Queen – even to _discuss_ harming the queen could see her executed, for all the king bore her little love. On the other hand, it was true enough that Her Majesty was renowned for her piety, and it would take little effort to arrange matters so that she retreated to a nunnery. The question of whether or not she should, however, was another matter entirely. It may be a harmless enough endeavour (and Jeanne had never cared overmuch for preventing harm anyhow; if she had, she wouldn’t trade in poppets) but Angelique had begun to worry her. What possibilities was she striving toward with this request? If she got into the habit of sweeping obstacles out of her path, Jeanne knew it was only a matter of time before she herself angered the woman somehow and became the latest irritant to be removed.

On the other hand . . . she _did_ promise riches in return for services rendered. And while Jeanne’s business thrived now, she knew better than to turn down the possibility of money to be kept against lean times.

“I cannot do precisely as you ask,” she said. Angelique opened her mouth, and Jeanne held up a hand to stop her. “I can move hearts, but not wills. However, if I were to create an opportunity – something she would find tempting – she may take it of her own volition. I can promise no more than that.”

Angelique frowned. “And shall I pay you for a service that may or may not be rendered?”

“You may pay me half now and half when it is done,” Jeanne said, a little shortly. “Whether you wish to do it or not is up to you. And bear in mind that I will offer you no further services after this.” She met Angelique’s eyes with another hard stare. “This is the only bargain I offer.”

Angelique’s face went red, but she answered quickly. “Done.”

“Very well.” Jeanne stood. “If it works, you will see results in no more than a month’s time. Pay me the first now, and come back then for the second.”

After Angelique handed Jeanne a jingling coin purse and went on her way again, Jeanne pulled an inkwell from beneath her table and set to work. She required no real special tools for this task, only ink that she had mixed ahead of time with a potent concoction of orris and licorice root to make it sufficiently persuasive. On the paper, she wrote out a brief announcement that the Queen had chosen to take vows and retreat to a convent in the Vosges mountains. When it was done, she sprinkled it with sand, kissed it, then tore it neatly into four quarters – one for each direction – and tossed it into the fire. She slept uneasily that night, a fact which she attributed to her general unease with Angelique rather than any crisis of conscience.

Once again, it hardly took long. The Queen, it was announced two weeks later, had tired of court life; and, given that she was of an age where she could not expect to bear more children (“not as though she bore any before,” sniggered some street wits) she intended to retreat from her husband’s circle and seek comfort in her faith. The king, of course, had nothing but respect for his wife’s piety; in fact, it was put about that he might have been tempted to follow her example, had he not been ordained by God to lead the country. Jeanne suspected that this rumour, at least, was nonsense, but she was certain it suited Angelique’s purposes somehow. Probably the Comtesse was the one who had started it.

She did not see Angelique again in person. A man came by her shop with a second bag of gold – “from our lady d’Orne,” he said – and that was that. Jeanne secreted both bags under a loose floorboard in her bedroom and went about her life.

* * *

She did not fail to think on the matter from time to time, but it was nearly five years before it was brought to her attention again. One morning in July, there was a great hue and cry in the streets, with women wailing and men bellowing. Jeanne put her head out the window and shouted down to ask what had happened.

“The king, Madame,” a child called up to her. “The king is dead.”

Jeanne slammed the shutters closed and retreated into the house, heart pounding. She was not a stupid woman, and even if she had been, she would still have recognized what this portended – especially now. The little princeling had celebrated his sixth birthday a few weeks earlier. His older sisters had been betrothed to sons of the highest noble houses in the country. His mother, already elevated as high as any mistress might be, had convinced the king to hand out appointments to men in her circle – her late husband’s brother had been named Lord Chancellor, her cousin was the Grand Constable, and her good friend the Duc de Montbazon had been named Admiral of France. This last appointment, coming just in time for her son’s birthday, had all but sealed her position – she had allies in all the highest positions in the land. Certainly, she had enough support to challenge the next in line – the King’s unpopular nephew, who would have to be summoned from his country estates to accept the crown. All had fallen into place.

 _Fallen_ was a misnomer. All had been _pushed_ into place. And Jeanne had done the pushing.

Now was no time to linger; she knew that. Angelique had her allies, but Jeanne did not – and Angelique had enemies as well. If she were accused of causing the King’s death, it would not be too terribly difficult to throw Jeanne to the wolves in her stead. It might not even come to that; she might try to remove Jeanne pre-emptively, before anyone had a chance to ferret out their connection. Jeanne had placed the woman’s son on the throne, and her position had never been more dangerous.

She made quick work of packing; she lived a frugal life in anticipation of just such a circumstance. All her clothing could fit into a single trunk. She kept the few instruments of magic that she knew she could not replace, and threw the rest on the fire. Herbs could be harvested elsewhere, and ink could be mixed, but Jeanne would not be able to retrieve herself from the flames if it came to that. By late afternoon, she was on a stagecoach leaving the city for Alsace-Lorraine. She would cross the border into Germany there, and travel on until she had managed to put sufficient distance between herself and the crown of France.

No one tried to stop her. She did not think anyone even took notice of her – and why would they? She was only another middle-aged, middle-class woman among many, making a journey out to the provinces. She did not pause once during her trip to say goodbye to the country that had given her birth, but fled headlong through Reims and Metz, not stopping for breath until the language around her had gone from soft French to phlegmatic German. Even then, she only paused long enough in Freiburg to catch her breath before going on to Stuttgart, and finally to a small town outside Ingolstadt – a place small and anonymous enough that none would think to look for her there. She suspected few outside the area even knew the town existed, and that was more than fine with her.

The people of this new town had little interest in the goings-on in France, and so she had to rely on herself to follow the doings at court. As she suspected, the little princeling ascended the throne; accusations were made against the mother of the king’s nephew that she had been unfaithful to her royal husband, and her son was not of noble blood at all. He had put up a token resistance, apparently more offended by the attacks on his mother’s virtue than the challenge to his royal prerogative, but had quickly retreated to his estates to lick his wounds after Angelique’s allies rallied around her son. The little boy was king, and his mother’s good friends sat on the council that oversaw his regency. The Comtesse of Domfront was the most powerful woman in the country, and if anyone spoke of witchcraft in relation to her meteoric rise, they spoke in whispers.

All of this, Jeanne saw in her scrying glass. She dared not speak of it to anyone around her, for fear that they would ferret out her connections to France, and so held her tongue. There was one other woman in town who she suspected knew more than she said – her fellow “herbalist,” Mechtilde, with whom she developed a business partnership – but neither spoke of it. Jeanne, always adaptable, learned to enjoy life in her new country. People were people all over; there were just as many begging poppets and love potions as there had been in Paris, and at least the ones who lived here had no ambitions of touching the throne.

It was several years before either she or Mechtilde spoken openly of what they were. “It is good to live here,” Mechtilde commented, as they filled their buckets at the town pump. “The people are grateful, calm. Those French – “ She shook her head and spat. “ _Hexenjägers_. They will come to no good.”

Jeanne, who knew German well by now, slowly set down her bucket. “Witch-hunters?” she said. “What witches to the French hunt?”

“Why, the ones in Paris.” Mechtilde gave her a searching look, while Jeanne schooled her features into a careful placidity. “I have a letter from my sister whose husband is tailor to our Duke and hears his dispatches from all over Europe. The little king’s mother is accused, and accuses others in her turn. Their court is afire with it.” She shook her head again. “How they bite and scratch for a little golden circle! And still it does them no good in the end.” She reached out to pat Jeanne’s arm. “It is good we live here, where we are safe.”

 _She knew._ She could say it no more plainly than that. Still, there was nothing accusatory in her gaze as she looked at Jeanne. She understood, Jeanne thought, what Angelique had not: that all the spells in the world would not save them if they played too long with fire. Kill by magic, or die at the stake; it all amounted to the same heap of ashes in the end. She was fortunate she had foreseen this ending while she still could.

“It is good,” she echoed Mechtilde. “I am glad of it.” And they went off, arm in arm, to the house where they sold little charms to ease little lives and did not toy with kings and crowns.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was loosely inspired by the Affair of the Poisons, an absolutely wild time at the court of Louis XIV, which you can read about in [Anne Somerset's book of the same name](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/123541.The_Affair_of_the_Poisons).


End file.
